


Odd Bedfellows

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Kidnapping, M/M, Oral Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-25 23:56:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13223898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: Prompt: The Mutations gave Witcher blood a unique taste. After his battle with Dettlaff, Geralt becomes a subject of interest and is targeted by many vampires with an avid lust for blood. After they catch him he is display in different 'partys' while they draw his blood and serve it like a fine vintage wine.





	Odd Bedfellows

**Author's Note:**

> Boy, this took a while to put up... it's my first fic for this fandom, so quality and accuracy is a little dubious, but I hope it's enjoyed regardless!

Very rarely would Geralt go into battle with a vampire without first imbibing a vial of black blood. On the rare occasion he had to forgo the item - generally due to lacking ingredients or a high toxicity - the vampire was dispatched with an emphasis on defensive tactics. It took longer, sometimes even _hours_ longer, and drained his stamina, but that was a small price to pay to avoid being sucked on like a nectarine.

It’d been years since he’d gone into battle with a vampire without it. He always had a few vials on hand, stowed in a pouch attached to his belt. He’d been careful to keep at least three on him at all times while in Toussaint, given the concentration of vampires in the area. Unfortunately, he had imbibed two while Beauclair had been under siege, and the third vial had been broken, along with a dose of swallow, thunderbolt, and two tawny owls, during his initial scuffle with Dettlaff.

So not only was he up against a higher vampire – a _true_ higher vampire, not a Katakan parading as one – but he had nothing to dissuade Dettlaff from sucking on him until his last drop of blood if he managed to get a foothold.

There was no amount of coin that would have made the fight with a higher vampire a worthwhile risk to even the most seasoned of Witcher (and Geralt certainly qualified as that, even if he hadn’t quite yet hit his first century of life). They had endless endurance, were impossibly fast, could summon flocks of bats and forge traps with their own life force. The only thing Geralt had going for him was his famed witcher stamina and a slightly accelerated speed. He had to settle into a pattern: dodge Dettlaff until he landed, use quen, then strike him with his sword until Dettlaff threw him aside. With so little time to think, it was hard to conceive of a better plan of attack. He wasn’t sure there _was_ a better plan to be employed when he had no useful decoctions he could use on the fly and no environmental structures he could utilise to his advantage. The situation was far from ideal.

Even he, with all his strength and skill, was slick with sweat and taking ragged breaths by the time he managed to sever Dettlaff’s wings. They fell upon the stone, twitching. Geralt raised his sword to parry when Dettlaff turned and flew for him, only to have the breath jarred out of him as he was knocked back and pinned to the filthy floor. Had he enough air in his lungs to do so, he probably would have cried out when Dettlaff’s toothy maw secured itself over his neck. The grip on him shifted and tightened when he tried to raise a hand to perform aard. Bony hands wrapped tight around his forearms, pressing them hard into the floor, making the bones creak in protest.

Any reservations Dettlaff had with consuming blood were clearly no longer an issue. He sucked hungrily, his slimy tongue roving over the wound, not wasting a single drop. The light-headedness that washed over Geralt was accompanied by a wave of dread. He wouldn’t have the strength to resist, soon.

With considerable effort, he twisted a palm until it faced Dettlaff and performed the igni sign. Dettlaff dislodged in an instant, roaring and leaping away to rid himself of the flames. Geralt’s thigh had caught alight. He paid the flames little mind as he lunged for his sword, dragging it close as a red, pulsating mass materialised before his eyes.  He was disorientated and weak, head spinning, but Dettlaff didn’t seem to be doing much better. A few gulps of blood and he was getting reckless, thoughtless. It didn’t take a great deal of effort on Geralt’s part to send him sprawling with his body parted at the shoulder, and it was a fortunate thing, too, because Geralt stumbled and fell at almost the same moment Dettlaff did. His palms hit the floor and he groaned, shaking his head in an effort to dispel his dizziness.

‘A few gulps’ might have been an understatement. The veins in his hands were so thin that he could barely make them out. He hauled himself to his feet, staggering dangerously, heading for Regis’ prone form. Unable to push aside the rock holding Regis down, he had to use aard. Regis immediately stirred. He tried to offer a hand, to pull him upright, only to have his knees buckle when Regis accepted his help. They both went tumbling back down.

Regis’ gaze rose to the jagged wound on his neck. “We need to get you medical attention.”

“After,” said Geralt, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder at the steadily reforming Dettlaff. He was making awful, pained sounds. “Need to deal with him first.” He wiped a palm down his face, taking deep breaths. “Gonna need some help.”

“I’ll manage on my own,” said Regis. When Geralt tried to rise, Regis gently guided him back to his knees. “Please, Geralt. You’re in no condition to assist.”

Geralt nodded and fell into a hunch, chin resting on his clavicle. Regis stripped off a glove and used it to cover the wound on Geralt’s neck, then guided Geralt to pressing down on it. “Don’t bleed out on me.”

“Try not to,” Geralt mumbled.

He focused his remaining energy on delaying unconsciousness. If he slipped into unconsciousness, he couldn’t be sure he would wake up, and after everything he had been through in the past decade, bleeding out from a bite to the neck while a friend he’d _just_ recovered stood four feet away was not how he wanted to die.

He heard a hiss and a flutter. Regis shouted – “Dettlaff!” – and Geralt turned just in time to see a cloud of red receding from view. Regis took a step forward as though to make chase, but stopped short, glancing over at Geralt. He didn’t hesitate to abandon Dettlaff in favour of helping his fallen comrade. Geralt was grateful and frustrated in equal measure. He’d fought Dettlaff going on an hour for _nothing_. Syanna was still alive, at least, but there was no telling how long that would last with Dettlaff still on the prowl.

A thin arm slipped around his waist. He let Regis pull him upright, bracing against him so he wouldn’t fall back down. His legs shook. He’d lost too much blood, far too much, and the wound was still wet, sticky and seeping. It was smothering the blue of his grandmaster armour.

His head lulled to the space between Regis’ head and neck. Regis was practically carrying him, and didn’t seemed to be having any trouble with doing so. A good thing, too, because only someone of Regis’ strength could have lifted the mass that was Geralt of Rivia onto Roach and sat down behind him, ensuring Geralt didn’t slide out of the saddle with a firm arm around his waist.

The trip to Regis’ graveyard was short and uneventful. A pack of wolves attempted to nip at their heels, but that was the extent of any excitement. They made it into the dreary depths of Regis’ makeshift home without incident.

He was carefully deposited on a mat laid out on the floor. Regis applied some ointments to his wound and stitched it shut, and Geralt barely felt a thing, disorientated as he was. A slight pulling, some stinging, but all muffled by blood loss and the precipice of unconsciousness. Regis gently pried his teeth apart and poured a potion down his throat, then stroked his throat to compel him to swallow. At some point, he must have passed out, though he couldn’t say exactly when.

The moment he awoke, another flask was being pressed between his lips. It was a swill of soothing herbs, bitter and sharp. He accepted it and almost choked on the contents in the process of swallowing, letting out a few haggard coughs while long fingers helpfully guided him to an angle. He ended up spitting a considerable amount of it onto Regis’ knees.

“Well,” murmured Regis. “What you did swallow should help with the pain.”

Geralt slowly slid back into place. “How long was I out?” he asked.

“Not nearly long enough,” answered Regis. “Back to sleep, my friend. Those potions need time to take effect.”

“Dettlaff-“ he began, but Regis cut him off.

“Has retreated and isn’t likely to return for some time given what you did to him. Beauclair is safe.” The corners of his lips dropped slightly, barely perceptible. “As is Syanna.”

Geralt tried to sit up, his head swimming. He didn’t get far before disorientation compelled him to lay back down. “I need to speak to the duchess.”

“You can do that when we aren’t in the late hours of night.”

Geralt let his eyes flutter shut. “Wake me before dawn.”

“I will, provided you have recovered an adequate amount of strength.”

“I only lost some blood.”

Regis scoffed. “I will allow that comment to pass, for now, but I insist that you sleep.”

“Fine.” He hadn’t the strength to protest any longer, anyway. That fight and all the fights preceding it had taken a lot out of him. He would have been happy to sleep for a week were he not so agitated by the thought of Dettlaff inflicting another blow on the city while he was unconscious. The sooner he saw Henrietta and set evacuation and conflict preparations in motion, the better. Granted, she wasn’t likely to be happy with him after he had let Dettlaff get away, and he wasn’t looking forward to being publicly chastised – _again_.

The draw of sleep soon proved too much and he fell back into slumber. He didn’t so much as twitch in his sleep, nor did he dream, and perhaps that was a good thing considering the grim events his subconscious had to draw on for inspiration.

When he finally clawed himself back into consciousness some time later, he felt moderately less awful. There was still pain, which prompted him to retrieve the flask of herbs Regis had left at his bedside and swallow what remained, but it wasn’t so debilitating that he wouldn’t be able to function. He rose onto his elbows, peering around the room for his vampiric friend. Regis was nowhere to be seen.

Without Regis there to force him into additional rest, he was able to dress and rummage through the pockets of his armour for something to eat. He located a handful of nuts and dried fruit and chewed on them on his way out the door. It wasn’t the most filling of meals, but it would do for now. He would dig up something more substantial later.

He found Roach feasting on a fresh patch of grass just beyond the graveyard and pulled himself onto her back with some difficulty. Regis appeared just as he started a trot.

“Geralt, a moment of your time!” he called, approaching. Geralt reluctantly dropped the reins.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked.

“Beauclair. I felt it appropriate to inform the duchess of your condition.” His mouth twitched into a frown. “She was none to happy to hear the progression of events, I’m afraid. I would give her some time before gracing her with your presence.”

Geralt sighed. “That’s more leniency than I would have gotten. Thank you, Regis.”

“Don’t thank me, my friend. I did less than I would have liked.”

“You did plenty.” He retrieved the reins. “Anything else I should know?”

“I’ve come into information regarding the last victim,” said Regis. “I think it may be of interest to you, if you can spare the time.”

* * *

Henrietta and Syanna got their happy ending. Their relationship would need time to recover; Syanna remained damaged by the abuse and neglect she had been subjected to in her youth, and it would take more than a heartfelt reunion for those wounds to heal, but they were taking things slowly, tentatively, and Damien reported seeing them speak warmly of their childhood jaunts.

Regis was less happy. He was relieved that Dettlaff was still alive, but betrayed anxiousness regarding what would happen should Dettlaff ever return. For all the ill Dettlaff had in inflicted, he was still Regis’ blood brother; he had still saved Regis’ life. Regis didn’t want to be forced to put him down like a rabid animal. Regis wanted nothing more than for Dettlaff to never return to Toussaint. It was a sad state of events, to never be able to see his blood brother again, but the alternative was far worse.  

An uneventful fortnight passed. Geralt’s wound had almost entirely healed by then. Strangely, just like the Striga wound he had received some decades ago, it didn’t appear to be scarring. That had something to do with the ointment Regis had given him, he suspected. He was grateful for that, because he didn’t particularly want to be reminded of that unique agony every time he looked in the mirror.

Dandelion came to visit him on his vineyard and gifted him the majestic painting previously hanging in his tavern, which Geralt promptly moved to the bedroom so there would be less of a chance of it being seen. Ciri followed shortly after, tearing away from her supervisors to catch up with Geralt. They were none too pleased about the deviation from the schedule they had set up, but were in no position to deny the upcoming empress her whims. Where Dandelion slept, he didn’t know, but Ciri occupied the guest bedroom for what few days she was able to stay. When she finally had to leave, he squeezed her tight and gifted her a dagger. It would be unseemly for an empress to be seen visibly armed; that was what guards were for, after all, so he’d made sure it was small enough to be concealed on one’s person.

Regis had started spending more time at Corvo Bianco than his own lodgings. At this point, he was less like a distant neighbour, and more like a resident of the household. Geralt had even offered him the guest bedroom a few times, but Regis had insisted that he didn’t want to impose, nor dissuade any of Geralt’s other companions from staying over.

As a consequence of his current, languid lifestyle, the mutagenerator Regis had gifted him hadn’t received much use, though he had told Regis on several occasions that he intended to see how it worked eventually. Geralt had been seeking a sentry life for longer than he could remember. It was hard to tear oneself away from something they desperately wanted once one had it. He wasn’t having much success in doing anything except drinking wine, exercising, reading, picking herbs, and fiddling with the laboratory he had in the basement. Sometimes he would repair and clean his equipment, but that was more recreational than practical.

Only when a small mob of people came knocking at his door was he drawn back to the Path. He’d gotten up, wiped the grease from the chicken he’d been feasting on off on his trousers, and gone to welcome inside who he had presumed would be Regis. He was instead greeted by a multitude of stricken villagers, some of whom he recognized as his own employees. There was a beast, he was told. It was picking off their livestock. It had recently picked off one of Geralt’s workers, whose limbs they had discovered scattered inside a throng of vines not an hour earlier.

Geralt donned his grandmaster armour, retrieved his swords, and set off to find the culprit.

The villagers hadn’t moved the bodies from where they had fallen. That was more sense than his clients usually demonstrated. He opted to investigate the human body first, as he didn’t want his employees to be subjected to its presence any longer than necessary. It had been cleaved neatly into four sections. Some bits were still attached, others hanging on by a thread of stringy muscle, mucus, or blood. There seemed too little blood for such a scene, however, and he wasn’t surprised when he found bite marks marring the corpses shoulder and neck.

Once his examination was done, he covered it with a blanket and instructed that contact be made with the local coroner. He then moved on to the livestock, which were located a short walk from his vineyard and had been killed in much the same way. The only difference was that their corpses retained their blood.

On a superficial level, it appeared to be the work of an Ekimmara. The depth and width of the cuts and the mess left behind fit an Ekimmara’s MO, but the deaths were otherwise too neat. Ekimmara hacked away at their victims – they didn’t cleave bodies into neat sections and nor would an Ekimmara turn its nose up at the blood of livestock. This seemed more like the work of a Katakan. But if it had been a Katakan, it was unlike any other Katakan Geralt had encountered. The more intelligent of the vampiric species weren’t known to mutilate their victims in such a manner. Stranger still, he couldn’t discern a reason for why it had killed the livestock. There didn’t seem any rhyme or reason behind it.

Before pursuing further clues, he prepared two lots of Black Blood, one White Honey, and coated his blade in vampire oil. He kept a few potion ingredients on hand as well, just in case. Better safe than sorry.

It didn’t take him long to find footprints leading into a nearby cluster of trees. They became fainter as he traversed the foliage, and fainter still when he reached the thick of the forest. When they abruptly ended, he slowed to a stop, looking around for some means of recovering the trail. He didn’t manage to meander far before a distant rustle of leaves brought him to a stop. He tore the cork out of his Black Blood concoction and surveyed his surroundings with keen eyes, the rim of the vial pressed to his bottom lip. He wouldn’t drink it just yet – he wanted to know what he was fighting first.

The sound abruptly subsided. Whatever it was, it may have thought better of fighting a Witcher.

He crept along the detritus in the approximate direction of his quarry. His creeping transitioned into a run when he spotted a shadow flitting through the trees, attempting to flee him. Thumb pressed firmly over the top of the vial containing the Black Blood, Geralt bounded after it, belting between trees and over bushes in pursuit of the figure. He couldn’t match its speed, but it would probably, _hopefully_ want to stop before he did.

Just when he was getting close, it suddenly swung around to face him. He managed to prevent himself from running into it by slamming a heel into the dirt. Up close and personal, he saw he’d been right; it was a Katakan. It slashed at him before he could move out of its path – but it didn’t aim for anything vital, instead striking his forearm hard enough to send the vial of Black Blood plummeting to the forest floor. Geralt swore and reached for his silver sword, leaping back to avoid the next strike of its talons. He allowed its following strike to come within reach of him, but only so he could swing his blade into its torso. The beast screeched and lumbered back with a fresh wound weeping on its chest, which gave Geralt another opportunity to strike it. His sword sliced neatly through its shoulder, but the proximity allowed it to apply its own attack, its talons biting into what little flesh was visible on his neck. Geralt withdrew with a grimace. The wound Dettlaff had inflicted hadn’t fully healed and that attack had put it in dire threat of reopening.

The Katakan raised its talons to its mouth and licked away the smudge of red on them with a long, slick tongue. It emitted a low rumbling sound as it swallowed, its bulbous eyes flicking briefly shut.

“Beautiful, beautiful, delicious blood.” The sound of its voice rocked through Geralt’s skull, and while it wasn’t the first time he’d heard such a thing (the vampire was far from the only creature that delighted in spilt blood), it brought the fine hairs on his forearms and neck to attention. He raised his silver sword, ready to parry should it come at him again.

It disappeared before his eyes. Or rather, it turned into a translucent, shimmering figure that would have been nigh impossible to track for a human, but merely took some effort for a trained Witcher. Geralt reached for his bombs belt and detached the Moon Dust he kept on his person. He waited until it had slowed, approaching him from the side, and pelted it at the creature. It promptly returned to visibility with a screech. Taking advantage of its momentary disorientation, Geralt performed a pirouette and slashed it across the shoulder, clavicle, and under its armpit, sending it sprawling to the forest floor. It scrambled to apply its own attack, but Geralt was quicker, thrusting his sword into its throat and performing igni while it was flailing about on the end of his blade. Its claws bit into his leg, thigh, and scraped along the armour covering his stomach, but he didn’t let up, drawing his sword down so it slid jerkily down through its sternum, cracking through bone and splitting organs. It movements slowed the lower he got and when he finally extracted his sword, it had gone completely still.

Geralt stumbled black, bleeding profusely from his legs and neck. He needed to get his wounds dressed before he lost too much blood. He didn’t want a repeat of what had happened last time. Head spinning, Geralt returned his sword to its scabbard and lumbered his way back to Corvo Bianco and stripped down to his underthings, seating himself outside while he splashed away the congealing blood and applied bandages. He didn’t want to get the inside of his house dirty. Barnabas-Basil would be horrified.

“Taking on contracts again, I see.”

Geralt glanced over his shoulder at an approaching Regis.

“Katakan killed one of my workers and some livestock,” he said, dipping his rag back into his bucket of water and sloshing it over his bleeding forearm. “Think it might be Dettlaff? Sending a warning, maybe?”

“No, that doesn’t seem like him.”

“Neither did attacking Beauclair, but he still did it.”

“That is true,” Regis conceded, coming to stand at Geralt’s side. “However, were he trying to send you a message, I imagine it wouldn’t be the kind open to interpretation. Did the Katakan say anything?”

“Just complimented my blood.” Which he was currently losing a lot of. He retrieved a roll of gauze and started to wrap it around the cuts on his legs. They were, at least, significantly smaller than the wound on his forearm and neck.

Regis made a thoughtful sound. “It’s possible this was a random attack. Perhaps a straggler deciding they hadn’t had enough of a taste of Beauclair.”

“If it wanted a taste, there are less dangerous vineyards it could have targeted.”

“That it attacked one of your workers may have been a coincidence,” offered Regis.

Geralt shook his head. “It didn’t exactly seem surprised to see me.”

“Attacking you may have been part of its motivation, then, though I sincerely doubt Dettlaff sent them. After the attack on Beauclair, I don’t expect his messages would be this subdued.”

“Fair enough.” Geralt finished up bandaging his legs and started on his forearm. He didn’t get far before Regis took over, kneeling beside him and plucking the gauze out of his hand. His bandaging was always considerably neater than Geralt’s.

“Don’t take any more contracts for at least a week, Geralt,” said Regis. “You need to give yourself time to heal.”

“I’m not planning on it,” said Geralt in a grumble. “Didn’t plan on this one, either.”

“I’ll bring some painkilling herbs,” Regis continued, moving onto the wound at his neck. “And a bottle of mandrake brew. That ought to tide you over, hm?”

When Regis returned with said herbs and mandrake brew, they sat outside, in the evening sun, and played a couple of games of chess with a board Regis had dug out of his belongings. Geralt could be a formidable strategist, but he still only won one game out of three.

* * *

Geralt went into the following week with the intention of sleeping in and lounging around his vineyard house. Three days in, a sobbing woman came to his door pleading for his help and Geralt’s plans to languish were cut short. He’d always found it hard to say no to women, and even more so when it was a woman pleading for the well-being of their child. He was much better, anyway. Still a little fatigued, but not so much so that he wouldn’t be able to fight if need be.

He asked the standard questions – where was the boy seen last, how long has it been since the attack, etcetera. The woman was vague in her answers, and insisted on coming when he headed in the direction she indicated.

The woman cast him nervous looks as she guided him to where her son had gone missing. They were drifting away from civilisation, heading for untraveled roads near the place he had recovered the manticore steel sword diagram.

“Seems a little far out,” he said.

The woman cupped her hands over her lap. “We- we like to dip in the nearby lake. It’s nice to get one’s feet wet, at this time of year.”

“Is the lake where your son went missing?”

“Yes. The drowners took him, I think.”

“You _think_?”

The woman regarded him nervously. “I’m not as familiar with beasts as a Witcher.”

“Describe what you saw, then.”

“Not a lot,” said the woman. “I was frightened. I ran.”

“Describe what you can.”

“Well, they looked like drowners. Blue skin, sharp teeth. My son saw them and started running, but he’s only seven; his legs are very short. I don’t think he escaped.”

“If they caught up to him,” began Geralt, reluctantly; this was the part of the job he hated most. “It’s unlikely he’s alive.”

The woman was silent. She avoided his gaze, staring ahead at their destination. When they came within a few feet of it, he instructed her to stand back, and she did without argument. He started to creep around the circumference of the lake in search of the drowners. He would dispatch them before looking for clues so he wasn’t interrupted.

To his great surprise, it was not the drowners he found, but the boy, and even more surprising, he was completely unscathed. The boy didn’t move as Geralt approached. He was barefoot, blue eyed, and had the same dirty blonde hair as his mother. He cast nervous glances at the forest when Geralt came within reaching distance of him and Geralt paused, hand coming to rest on the pommel of his silver sword.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

The boy gave a jerky nod.

“Your mother’s nearby.” He motioned to the opposite side of the lake with his chin. “Need me to walk you to her?”

“N-no,” the boy stammered, then raised a hand and pointed. “She’s coming.”

Geralt glanced over his shoulder. The mother was indeed streaming down the edge of the lake, her eyes wide and bosom heaving. The boy ran up to meet her and they embraced, and Geralt slowly removed his hand from his sword.

He supposed, of all the ways one could waste their time, this wasn’t so bad.

“Need an escort back?” he asked.

The woman hauled the little boy into her arms. “You need to go, master witcher.”

“ _What_?” he was used to rejection, but not immediately after he had helped someone recover their child. There was usually at least a _little_ gratitude before the insults started.

“It isn’t safe here-!” the woman began, and he didn’t hear the rest as he promptly discovered why it wasn’t safe when a bulky figure slammed into his side and sent him sprawling into the dirt. He rolled back onto his feet and yanked his silver sword out of its scabbard, lurching across the bank to avoid any additional strikes. The woman had taken off running, her son held tight in her hands.

“Should’ve just killed the boy,” a voice muttered. There was a bestial grunt of agreement from whatever had run into him.

Geralt spun around with his sword held ready and cursed through clenched teeth when he realized he was facing _three_ vampires. He was getting tired of dealing with them (the hostile ones, in any case).

A Bruxa and Katakan stood on either side of a tall, regal man with long platinum blonde hair and silvery blue eyes. He had a narrow, but handsome face, and made no attempt to hide his fangs when he smiled. Geralt didn’t like his chances against three vampires, particularly when one of them appeared to be a true higher vampire.

“Not much of a trap, considering I’m still armed,” said Geralt. Granted, he wasn’t as well armed as he would have liked to be. No vampire oil on his blade and no Moon Dust attached to his bombs belt. He had only Black Blood, and that wasn’t ideal when going up against more than one opponent. It necessitated injury and thus couldn’t be relied upon.

“I don’t foresee that being much of an issue,” said the man, his nails extending into claws.

The Bruxa had turned invisible. He tracked it with a flick of his eyes, turning his back to the water. Provided there were no drowners nearby, he could be sure nothing would pounce at him from there.

“Does Dettlaff send his regards?” he asked. “How’s his shoulder?”

The higher vampire snorted. “Perhaps you can ask him yourself, provided I don’t decide to dispatch you.” In one flittering movement, the vampire was at his front, talons slicing through the air. Geralt just barely lifted his sword in time to parry them. He dropped to the ground as the Bruxa came at him from the side, rolling away from the shore.

“You don’t have to make this difficult,” the higher vampire said, but he didn’t sound at all upset or frustrated with Geralt’s resistance. Seemed to be enjoying it, in fact. “You will be permitted a quick death, should you concede, and should you not live up to expectations.”

“ _Really_ generous of you,” breathed Geralt. He propelled himself out of the way of the charging Katakan and threw his sword at the bruxa in the same movement. The beast screamed in fury when he slashed her across the chest.

The higher vampire laughed, and it was a sound that came to him from far too close. Geralt didn’t manage to evade before it grabbed him around the head and slammed him into the ground. He attempted to swing his sword, but it caught on the Bruxa’s claws and was deftly yanked out of his hand. Abandoning that, he reached for his bomb belt, for a Samum bomb. “Dettlaff was right,” the higher vampire spat, grinning and grasping him by the wrists, holding them to the sand, away from anything he could defend himself with. Geralt growled and thrashed. “You are _delightfully_ stubborn.”

A heavy weight settled over his legs. The Katakan grasped him around the thighs to hold him still.

“Don’t snarl,” said the higher vampire. “It’s an ugly look for such a handsome face.” Geralt showed him his gums and the vampire laughed again. “Oh, I think I’m going to like you.”

“Doubt I’ll share the sentiment,” he snapped back, voice muffled by the sand.

The bruxa dropped to his side and coiled her long, bony fingers into his hair, grip tight enough to draw a thin rivulet of blood. When his head was pulled back to display his neck, the higher vampire leaned down and licked the red away from his hairline, then descended to his neck and sunk its teeth into the straining flesh, tearing into the still-healing wound there. Geralt twitched, struggled, but it didn’t do him any good; he couldn’t escape the collective strength of three vampires. There were times he couldn’t even escape the collective strength of three _humans_ , provided they played their cards right.

There was too much going on in his head for the bite to register as painful. Half-formed plans of escape – _inch your palm around, use aard, and_ – interrupted by the realization of what would happen should he live.

He couldn’t move his hand. The grip on his wrists was too secure.

He thought about using igni instead – but he was more likely to burn himself than his aggressors.

The higher vampire dislodged with a sound that Geralt determinedly tried to think of as something other than a moan. 

“Let’s hope those mutations of yours accelerate blood replenishment, because I’m going to find it very hard to resist draining you. I see why my companion went in for a drink rather than bringing a taste as he had been instructed.” The bruxa’s fingers withdrew, replaced by those of the higher vampire. Geralt set his expression into one of loathing. “Look dour all you like. It won’t do you any good.”

Shackles were revealed and deftly slid onto his wrists and ankles, ensuring he wouldn’t be able to go far should he manage to escape. Them being dimeritium meant no access to signs. He was scrambling for options, now, and few of them were looking feasible.

He thought briefly of the woman… and dismissed her as a potential rescuer before any hope could form. She’d almost lost her son once; she wasn’t likely to risk losing him again by informing someone of Geralt’s whereabouts, and especially not for a man she barely knew.

A thick strip of fabric was tied over his eyes, depriving him of his sight. He was pulled upright and carried a considerable distance before being deposited in something with a steel floor. When he heard the creak of a door and a lock being slid into place, he realised he’d been thrown into a cage. A nice large one, too, by the feel of things. He could stretch out his legs and still not feel the edge. Of course, such a cage probably wasn’t meant for just _one_ human.

He heard wood creak, and the higher vampire said, “I would’ve liked to pick up something else while we were here, but you’ll suffice.”

“Maybe we should go for an elf next time?” suggested the Katakan.

“It has been a while,” murmured the higher vampire. “But we’ll have to set time aside for a trip, in that case. They’ve a pitiful population here.”

He spent most of the journey removing his blindfold by rubbing the back of his head up against a bar. He only managed to get it up a few inches before the hand of the bruxa – now almost perfectly humanoid – reached inside and pulled it back into place, chastising him with a yank on his chains, like he was a misbehaving dog rather than a sapient being.

He settled in the corner of the cage after a while. It wasn’t as though there was much else he could do. There was no Gaunter O’Dimm to arrange a miraculous escape for him this time.

The only indication he was given that night had fallen were the sounds of crickets. Occasionally he heard indistinct voices, splashing, and the chorus of howling wolves, but they were such nondescript sounds that they gave little indication as to where he might be.

After some time, the cart came to such a violent stop that Geralt hit the back of his head on a bar. The hands returned, extracting him from the cage and carrying him across grass. He could tell it was grass, because he recognised the crunch of it underfoot. After that arrived the thud of feet on cobblestone, and then the shuffle of movement across smooth stone.

The blindfold was finally removed. There wasn’t much to see, however: he’d been guided to the mouth of a basement. He didn’t have time to examine the scenery behind him, swallowed up by the dark as the higher vampire guided him down the steps.

There were other humans in the basement. A woman lay in the middle of her cell, pale and motionless. Geralt smelt death on her as he was placed in an adjacent cell.

The higher vampire ascended the steps and closed the door, leaving them in the dark. Geralt narrowed his pupils to get a look at his companions.

One dying woman and a very fatigued looking man. With such slim pickings, it was no wonder the vampire had gone on the prowl for someone more durable.

The man didn’t respond when he called to him, and nor did the woman. He hadn’t expected the latter to, with how sluggish her heartbeat was, barely holding on, but he’d hoped for some kind of recognition from the man.

After a while, with nothing else to do, Geralt took to meditating.

* * *

The higher vampire had him scrubbed clean, his beard shaved, and his hair removed from its ponytail and cut and styled until presentable. The vampire lamented its inability to do anything about his scars, but compensated by providing him with an outfit that complimented his rough appearance. To Geralt’s relief, it wasn’t a doublet; it was a red robe with beautiful, floral patterned gold trimming, not unlike the robe Vlodimir had forced him to wear to a wedding. It was loose enough to display his neck and chest, though the higher vampire did up a few of the buttons to conceal his unsightlier scars.

“What am I – a show pony?” he asked, curling back his lips in a snarl when a bruxa came at him with a chewstick.

“Yes,” said the higher vampire, who Geralt had recently found out was named Anzelm, and proceeded to hold his mouth open while the bruxa removed any plaque from his teeth. Geralt had half a mind to snap at his fingers when the deed was finally done.

“I like my drinking troths to blend with the scenery,” Anzelm said, leaning his hip against a bathroom counter, watching as the bruxa moved onto Geralt’s nails. “I would never present you covered in filth and fleas. I hadn’t even known humans could get fleas. Disgusting.”

What exactly he was being prettied up for became clear when he was guided out of the basement and into a lavish ballroom, where he was made to sit in a chair with his wrists and ankles attached to hooks on the wall and floor. He inched his limbs in a small semi-circle in an effort to make himself comfortable, but that was the extent of movement the chains permitted. The bite on his neck was re-opened by one of their hosts sharp nails and his blood squeezed into gold goblets. The guests consumed it like a fine wine, swirling it in their goblets and taking tentative sips. They even spoke of it like one, describing its texture and taste in poetic terms and marvelling at the novel flavour of a witcher’s blood.

When there was a lull in activity, he took a moment to examine his surroundings. In his time as a Witcher, dragged into politics as he so often was, he’d seen many a ballroom. This one was comparatively modest; small and sparsely furnished with a couple of long tables offering appropriate nibbles. Situated in the middle of the ceiling was one large gold chandelier, bathing them in gentle candlelight. The walls were cream with intricate gold patterns woven into the wallpaper, and the floor was a strange, glossy gold. There were no windows, and only two exits on either end of the room.

Geralt shifted his attention to the guests, none of which he recognised. Some were in beast form, others in human. Geralt was studied enough in the social behaviour of vampires that he wasn’t terribly surprised by the aggregation of them, but he’d never seen quite this many in one place before and it was _remarkable_. Very few people witnessed anything like this and fewer still lived to tell the tale.

To be honest, he wasn’t liking his chances of being part of the ‘lived to tell the tale’ category. He would outlast the other humans in captivity, no doubt, but his Witcher stamina could only keep him alive for so long while his blood was being siphoned. All it would take to kill him was deprivation of just that little bit too much… or he would be forced to endure a slow death, body struggling to accommodate the loss of blood over weeks or months. His heart would give out on him eventually. He would try to escape to evade such deaths, of course, but ‘try’ was the operative word. It’d been tough enough to deal with _one_ higher vampire and there were a multitude here, so even if Geralt did manage to break out of his chains, what were his chances of successfully fleeing the premises?

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the backrest, tired after having been used liberally during the vampires merry making. They would return periodically to refill their goblets, but as the party progressed, they were careful to moderate their drinking. They wouldn’t want their hosts newest possession to expire from blood loss, after all. A witcher wouldn’t be an easy thing to replace, few as there were.

He fell asleep almost immediately upon being dragged back to the basement. Or fainted, rather. If not for the potions Anzelm poured down his throat before locking him inside, he expected he would have expired in the night.

* * *

He was often brought to the ballroom, and with little rest in between. The potions Anzelm gave him must have promoted red cell regeneration, because he wasn’t nearly as fatigued as he should have been. Still weak and tired, but tolerably so. He’d only come close to passing out twice since that first night.

He outlasted his companions. The woman was taken out, pale as snow, and the man didn’t return after being brought upstairs one evening. That left Geralt alone; not that being alone made much difference. Neither the man or woman had said a single word to him. They’d been too weak and too close to death to do so. He expected they would be replaced, eventually.

He was at the point where he paid little mind to the proceedings while upstairs. He’d taken to meditating until the festivities had ended. He was often interrupted, usually by groping hands or lips on his neck, but there were times where he receded far enough into his mind not to be disturbed.

Strong fingers grasping his chin were one of the things he wasn’t able to ignore. He peeled open his eyes to glare up at whatever aristocratic vampire (the only people Anzelm deemed worthy to surround himself with) had come to sample the newest addition to Anzelm’s stock.

Dettlaff stared down at him, blue eyes cold and penetrating. “Witcher,” he said.

“Beast,” he replied. By the way Dettlaff’s mouth twitched, Geralt gathered that he didn’t appreciate the nickname.

“So out of your element,” the vampire murmured, releasing Geralt to cast a glance at the goblets ostentatiously stacked at Geralt’s side. “How did you end up here?”

“Ambush,” he said simply. “After _someone_ told your host a witcher’s blood was a delicacy.”

Dettlaff wrinkled his nose. “I did no such thing.”

“Don’t think I believe you.”

“I did no such thing,” Dettlaff repeated. “But nor do I owe you an explanation. You deprived me of vengeance.”

“Yeah, and I would’ve deprived you of a lot more than that had you not run with your tail between your legs.”

“How noble of you, to protect a murderer and manipulator.”

“She didn’t set a mob of vampires on a city of innocents,” said Geralt, his lips pulled back in a silent snarl. “Men strewn in the streets – now, that I’m used to. But women, children…  you should’ve been there, Dettlaff. Seen your handiwork. Sure it would’ve given you great pleasure to think back on the pain and misery you wrought.”

“Quiet,” Dettlaff hissed, hand suddenly around Geralt’s neck, shaking minutely. His elongated nails bit into Geralt’s shoulder. “You are testing my patience, witcher, and I do not want to upset my host by depriving him of you.”

“Go ahead,” said Geralt. He pressed the pale column of his throat to Dettlaff’s palm. The blood there smudged on the vampire’s fingers, vivid against the white. “Much easier to deal with me now, while I can’t fight back. No honour in it, but I don’t imagine that’s a concern of yours.”

Dettlaff took an unsteady breath. “That is not what I came here to do.”

“What, then? To mock me?”

“No.” The hand on his neck slowly withdrew. Dettlaff raised his fingers to his mouth and licked away the blood, and Geralt understood: he wanted to drink. Felt _compelled_ to drink. It couldn’t be something he was doing of his own volition, because he was frowning, unhappy. Tense. For someone who regarded blood consumption as an activity for juveniles, having a sudden _yearning_ for it must have been aggravating.

“Getting more beast-like by the minute,” said Geralt.

“You say these things as though they should bother me. You’re mistaken.” Despite his words, Dettlaff was visibly upset, his mouth pulled into a frown. “I don’t care for your approval.”

“They do bother you. I can see as much.”

To that, Dettlaff said nothing. He covered Geralt’s mouth with a palm and guided him to displaying his neck, leaning down to drag the flat of his tongue over the warm spill of blood there. He was surprisingly gentle for someone who loathed Geralt, for someone whose grip shook with repressed hunger. He gave the wound a couple more slow licks before fitting his teeth over it, sucking out small mouthfuls of Geralt’s life force.

Geralt took slow, even breaths through his nose, watching over Dettlaff’s shoulder as several guests took their leave. Dettlaff had come unfashionably late. He would be due to leave, soon, and Geralt was grateful for that. He hadn’t particularly enjoyed their conversation despite having the upper hand (verbally, in any case).

Dettlaff didn’t stop drinking for several minutes, by which point Geralt had gained a helping of nausea on top of general weakness and languor. When Dettlaff was finally done, he waited there a moment, breathing unevenly, and then extracted himself. He left without a word, another thing Geralt was grateful for.

Anzelm took one look at him and returned him to the basement, lingering just long enough to pour regenerative potions down his throat. He was too weak to be bothered by the sour taste of them.

“Gluttons,” the vampire muttered as he closed and locked the cell door. Geralt curled up on the stone and fell asleep.

* * *

Dettlaff drew from him twice more over the following week before finally engaging Geralt in conversation again. “I never referred to your blood as a delicacy.” He spoke against Geralt’s neck, the tip of his nose cold against the underside of Geralt’s jaw. The sensation put his teeth on edge. “I merely expressed my… _issues_ with it.”

“Don’t care,” Geralt ground out. “Move.”

Dettlaff didn’t budge. “I’m drinking.”

“You’re finished. No, don’t – _don’t_ start again.” A breath whistled out of him, past clenched teeth. Why did Dettlaff always have to apply his mouth to the wound instead of drinking from a goblet like everyone else? It was a uniquely awful feeling to have blood _sucked_ out of you. “That’s sensitive,” he added, tilting his head away from Dettlaff’s serrated teeth.

“Your wound?” asked Dettlaff.

“ _Move_ ,” he said again, louder. This time, Dettlaff finally did, withdrawing and wiping away a smudge of red from the corner of his mouth. He didn’t quite manage the cold indifferent expression he was going for, his wrinkled brow conveying agitation. Regis had been right about him; he was a being guided by emotion, even if he tried not to be.

Once there was a comfortable distance between them, Geralt resumed speaking. “I don’t care how you got me here.”

“Very well, I’ll refrain from trying to enlighten you in the future,” said Dettlaff coolly.

“Enlighten me? You’re trying to excuse yourself.”

“There’s no need for me to excuse myself, lease of all to you.”

“You think I deserve this.” It was a statement, not a question. “Petty revenge, that’s what this is.”

“I did not arrange-“

“You might as well have.”

Dettlaff’s pale lips thinned. His expression was inscrutable as he examined the shackles setting deep red marks into Geralt’s wrists. If nothing else, he didn’t appear to be _enjoying_ the sight of them.

“I can stop coming,” he said at last. “If that would make you more comfortable.”

“Doubt it,” said Geralt. “You don’t have the self-control for it.” Dettlaff would come again, and again, even if it was the very last thing he wanted to do, because the addiction demanded it. Perhaps with Regis’ help he could have kicked the habit, but Geralt didn’t expect him to return to Regis anytime soon.

After a lengthy pause, Dettlaff turned and left. It wasn’t likely they would exchange many words during their next few encounters.

* * *

As expected, Dettlaff managed to draw from him three times over the course of a fortnight without engaging him in conversation. Frustrating as it was to be ignored, Geralt understood it was a coping mechanism, of sorts, and didn’t try to provoke Dettlaff into responding to his greetings.

On the forth encounter, he finally received a response. “Beast.”

“Wolves are beasts,” said Dettlaff, quite abruptly. “And you are the White Wolf.”

Geralt looked bemused. “Trying to say we aren’t that different because of our nicknames?”

“I say as much because we _aren’t_ different.”

“I don’t kill innocents.”

“You evaded the question last I asked how many you had killed. I don’t think you are being honest, to either me or yourself.”

Geralt hesitated just long enough for Dettlaff to come to his own conclusions. He laughed. It was soft and cold, devoid of mirth. Geralt would have liked to protest whatever ridiculous bullshit he’d decided was the truth, but what was the point? Dettlaff would believe what he wanted to believe, no matter what Geralt said.

“Are you friends with the host?” Geralt asked, wishing to change the subject. Thankfully, Dettlaff obliged him.

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t seem like your type.”

Dettlaff’s ‘friend’ was currently engaged in conversation with a black-haired beauty, his voice high and jovial. He probably smiled more in a single evening than Dettlaff did in a year. Frankly, he seemed the sort of person Dettlaff would find grating.

“He isn’t,” said Dettlaff. “But he helped me and I am indebted to him for that.”

“You were alive. Albeit, in pieces,” said Geralt. “Didn’t think you’d need help.”

“Regeneration wasn’t what I needed help with,” Dettlaff said and leaned down to mouth the bloody cut on Geralt’s neck, so gently that it was almost pleasant rather than painful. “To recover myself, I needed guidance. I would have remained in bestial form without it.” He was less perfunctory than usual. He licked the raised flesh and absentmindedly nosed into Geralt’s jaw, breath rolling over his skin. He must’ve been getting comfortable with Geralt, despite the content of their conversations. “It’s irreversible without help,” he added.

Goosepimples rose on Geralt’s forearms and he fisted his hands. “Didn’t know that,” he said, with just a hint of inflection in his voice. “As far as friends go, he still seems pretty shit. You have better options.”

Dettlaff shifted position, knee on Geralt’s chair, brushing his thigh. “I do not wish to upset Regis with my presence.”

“Doubt he’d be upset. Relieved, probably.”

“I have been a source of trouble for him. He is happier without me.”

“For someone who claims he doesn’t feel guilty, you certainly act like you do.”

Instead of a reply, Dettlaff finished sucking at his wound, licked it clean, and withdrew. He started to turn, but stopped when Geralt jerked in his bonds, chains pulled taut. The shrill ring of metal against metal drew curious looks from the other guests.

“You really need to stop leaving every time there’s a hint of conflict,” said Geralt, his voice low and irate. “You need help, Dettlaff.”

Dettlaff paused. “Are you telling me this because you hope I’ll get _you_ some in the process?”

“Wouldn’t be opposed if you wanted to, but I don’t think high enough of you to believe you would.”

“Yet you still consider me deserving of help.”

“You could have killed me. You haven’t,” Geralt said. “That’s more than I can say for some.”

Dettlaff dropped his gaze. His shoulders had risen to a tense line. “You never should have involved yourself in my affairs, witcher. You would have lived on peacefully in that vineyard house of yours.”

“Little late to be telling me that. I’m embroiled. Not a lot I can do about it, short of dying.”

“I am…” A beat of silence. “Sorry, that this is how things are.”

He couldn’t stop himself from replying with: “That the only thing you’re sorry for?” There were many things Dettlaff had to be sorry for, least of all the state Geralt was in.

“No,” admitted Dettlaff. “But it is as you said: too late. My regrets cannot be washed away with an apology alone. Even killing Rhen- Syanna would not fix anything, at this period.” He folded his arms, appearing to want to make himself small. “I will continue to live as I am, because there is nothing else for me.”

“Regis-“

“Is but one friend, and one I don’t wish to impose myself on.”

“Me, then.”

Dettlaff lifted an eyebrow. “You?”

“Me.”

“Why would _you_ want to help _me_?”

He shrugged. “Have plenty of free time. Might as well use it for something productive.”

For a long moment, Dettlaff was quiet, scrutinising him. The lines on his forehead deepened with tension. After Syanna, Geralt imagined trust in a human didn’t come to him easy, especially when the human extending an olive branch had previously attempted to kill him.

“Very well,” he said, finally. “I will be back to… talk.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Not that he had much choice on that front.

* * *

As promised, Dettlaff returned to chat. In fact, he came every time Anzelm hosted a function and often stayed until the early hours of the morning. They started slow at first, both tentative and unsure of how to broach certain topics, both wary of the other, but they soon became comfortable enough with one another’s presence to have in-depth discussions about their experiences, values, friends, and acquaintances. Dettlaff was a charming and engaging conversationalist when he wanted to be.

To ease Geralt’s discomfort, Dettlaff had taken to removing Geralt’s wrists from their hook. Anzelm had initially protested this… but Dettlaff was a large, intimidating man, older than him by several centuries, and a few choice words had been enough to make him back off.  

Geralt didn’t try to escape. He didn’t so much as rise out of his chair, tempting though it was to give his legs a stretch. If he did, he feared he would be caught and Dettlaff would abandon their conversations. Between being fed on and spending days at a time in a dark, cold cell with no one to interact with, their conversations were the only thing keeping him sane. He didn’t take well to captivity and isolation.

“Your choice of romantic venture was interesting,” said Geralt. They’d been discussing Geralt’s odd choice of companions and it had occurred to him he had never questioned Dettlaff’s capacity for affection for beings most vampires considered ‘lesser’. The compassion, love, and friendship Dettlaff had demonstrated for humans was opposed to the behaviour he had exhibited after Syanna’s betrayal, which only served to increase Geralt’s curiosity.

“How so?” asked Dettlaff.

Geralt spread his hands – or tried to. The chains prevented him from parting them far. “A vampire and a human. It’s an unusual coupling.”

“Many a vampire has coupled with a human. I believe your kind has written books on the subject.”

“And the consistent theme in them is ‘one-night stands’, for good reason,” said Geralt.

“You’ve read them?” asked Dettlaff, bemused.

“What? No.”

“But if you’re aware of a consistent theme-“

“I glance at every book I pick up.”

Dettlaff regarded him with growing mirth. “Oh, I see.” A smile played on his lips. “Well, one does not choose who they fall in love with. Humans are just as viable a partner as anyone else.”

“Most vampires wouldn’t agree.”

“I know. They found my choice in mate distasteful and have only allowed me back into the fold due to Syanna's passing.” Dettlaff drummed his nails on his thigh, gazing at his host, who was currently guiding a small throng of people to the exit. Dettlaff would be due to make his own leave soon. “Despite what I have… inadvertently led you to believe, I recognise humans as sapient beings and respect that. I will never understand your customs, your society, and I will never take them on as my own, but I recognise your right to those things.” Dettlaff, like Regis, would get verbose when given the opportunity, and Geralt was starting to appreciate that quality. It meant _he_ had to speak less. “I regret that I impeded on those things by imposing my idea of vengeance on the people of Beauclair. The only one who should have, and deserved to die was Syanna.”

“That’s surprisingly open-minded of you. I’m impressed.”

Dettlaff smiled. “I believe that’s the first compliment you’ve given me, witcher.”

“Previous circumstances didn’t call for any,” said Geralt.

“Very true.” Dettlaff threaded his fingers. “I hope it won’t be the last pleasant thing you have to say about me.”

“If I get out of here, I’m sure I’ll have a lot more to say.”

He rubbed at the pink rings around his wrists. Dettlaff watched him as he did, expression pinched.

“If?” He placed unnecessary emphasis on the word, pulling away from the table and straightening his coat. “Have faith in your allies. You will leave here, eventually.”

“Sure, if they find me.” Which they had yet to do, despite it having been months.

“There’s that ‘if’ again.” Dettlaff gave his forearm a reassuring sort of squeeze, then turned to make his leave. “This has been pleasant, but it is getting late. Goodnight, witcher.”

“Goodnight, Dettlaff.”

* * *

Dettlaff had taken to straightening his robe for him lately, which often became dishevelled during Anzelm’s friends’ initial merrymaking. His deft fingers would straighten the lapels and fit the collar snug around the back of his neck, then brush his long white hair out of the way. It was an odd, but welcome little ritual.

“Are you comfortable?” asked Dettlaff, like he always did.

Geralt nodded. The adjustments didn’t make that much difference, truth be told, but he appreciated them all the same. They made him feel a little less like a piece of meat on display.

“Good.” Dettlaff resumed his lean against the table, arms crossed. “Now, what was this story you had about a Zeugl? It sounds riveting.”

He was exhausted from the nights events, but he still recounted the story with enthusiasm. Dettlaff encouraged him with visible interest.

When Dettlaff finally took his leave, late that night, he did so without drawing from Geralt. He turned and strode out with his hands fisted and shoulders hunched, struggling against his baser instincts. Geralt didn’t know what to think of the display, but soon he was too tired to do any thinking at all.

* * *

Geralt’s ‘maintenance days’ were the only reprieve Geralt got from the ballroom and basement. After being made to swelter in his filth a few days, he would be brought upstairs, into a bathroom, and made to sit in a tub of tepid water. Bruxa would traditionally bathe, dry, and shave him, but it wasn’t unlike Anzelm to intervene if he found error in their work. He had shaved Geralt twice and scrubbed his hair a few times. He treated Geralt more like a canvas than a human being.

Once he had finished his bath, he was directed to a stool. He sat upon it and Anzelm applied a thin sheen of shaving cream to his jaw, just to shear away what little stubble was present. Geralt couldn’t say he minded being clean-shaven. When one had a beard, it would get itchy and dirty, and the filth tended to accumulate when one’s dwelling was a dusty basement that had probably never been introduced to the bristles of a broom.

With slow, careful strokes, Anzelm flicked away the cream and a smattering of white hairs. “You and Dettlaff seem to be getting along,” murmured Anzelm. “He’s far more reticent with me.” There was a note of jealousy in his voice, and Geralt was nervous to hear it considering the vampire currently had a blade held to his jaw.

“We have history,” said Geralt, careful not to jostle the straight razor.

“Do you, now?” Anzelm cleaned the blade in a nearby basin of water. “What kind of history?”

“Not the good kind.”

Anzelm scoffed. “Then why would he waste time on you?”

Geralt lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Sentiment for something he doesn’t have anymore.”

“Which would be…?”

“Ask him.”

Anzelm sighed and returned the blade to his face, drawing it down his chin. “You’re very impertinent for a human. Most of them just squabble and beg.”

“That tends to happen when you pull peasants out of their beds.”

“We don’t take them out of their beds,” said the vampire. “That would cause too much commotion. We take them off the street.”

“ _Really_ don’t care what your primary method of enslaving humans is.”

The blade nicked his jaw. Geralt hissed. Anzelm smiled. “Oops.”

“You almost done?” he asked.

“Just your upper lip now.” Anzelm positioned the razor. “I must admit, I can see why Dettlaff likes you. Such an recalcitrant attitude. I enjoy the dry wit.” A slow drag, then Anzelm shook the razor clean in the basin. “It’s endearing.”

“I’m flattered,” he said dryly.

“Ah, there it is.” Anzelm laughed and began to towel down his face, examining his handiwork. “You’re handsome, too. Humans aren’t my taste, personally, but after the looks Dettlaff has been giving you, I expect I’ll have to lend him a guest bedroom soon.”

Geralt looked incredulous. “ _What_?”

“You know what I said.” Anzelm stood back while the bruxa packed away the shaving supplies. “Have you not noticed?”

“There’s nothing _to_ notice.”

“Really?” Anzelm tilted his head. “Every time he drinks from you, it looks like he’s barely resisting the urge to throw you down, and my, those _unnecessarily_ long stares. Really, you would have to be an idiot not to notice.”

Anzelm was just fucking with him, Geralt was sure. He wanted to make things awkward, drive a wedge between him and Dettlaff, but Geralt wouldn’t let himself be taken by Anzelm’s drivel. He _needed_ Dettlaff. He hadn’t anyone else.

“You don’t believe me,” said Anzelm, grinning. “Proposition him. I doubt he’ll even hesitate.”

“I’m not about to do that.”

“No? Oh, but it would be so amusing!”

“Sorry to disappoint,” said Geralt, sounding not sorry at all.

“Well, I can’t force you…” A pause. “Actually, I _could_ , but I _won’t_.” Anzelm retrieved Geralt’s shackles from a nearby counter and gestured for his wrists. Geralt lifted them. “But I do strongly suggest you broach the topic with Dettlaff. I think you’ll be surprised, perhaps even pleasantly so.” He winked, and Geralt responded with a wrinkling of his nose. “I’ll keep a guest room prepared. There’s no downside to having Dettlaff get your blood pumping; benefits me, in the long run. I find blood delightful from a human that has just performed coitus. It’s always so lovely and hot.”

“ _Ugh_.”

“I’ll be sure to leave ample oil in the nightstand,” continued Anzelm.

Not for the first time, Geralt was grateful for his inability to blush.

* * *

The next time he and Dettlaff were due to speak, Geralt found it difficult to engage in casual conversation. Anzelm may have been right; Dettlaff scarcely blinked when conversing with Geralt and maintained eye contact for unusually long periods, and though the room was reasonably well lit, his pupils appeared more dilated than they should have been. Dilated pupils indicated interest. These could all be inconsequential things, of course; Anzelm may have just sullied his mind with suggestion, but he thought back to the way Dettlaff’s lips had roved over his neck, the way he had nosed into the space beneath Geralt’s jaw, his cool breath on warm skin…

Geralt was struck with the realisation that he _definitely_ didn’t find Dettlaff an _unappealing_ bed partner.   

“Geralt.”

He snapped out of his reverie to glance up at Dettlaff.

“Is everything alright? You’ve barely said a word.”

“Everything’s fine,” he said, his throat tight. “What were you-?”

“Is something wrong? Are you being mistreated?” asked Dettlaff, squinting down at him, at the wound on his neck. It would scar horribly should it ever be given the opportunity to heal, but currently, it was of little concern to Geralt. It was thin, shallow, and Geralt tolerated the pain with ease. The fatigue, on the other hand, had been making him nauseous and lightheaded recently, which meant his heart wasn’t able to replenish the blood faster than it was being taken even with the potions he was given every day. They could only do so much.

“Beyond being kept in a cage and brought out for dinner parties? No.”

Dettlaff winced. “Otherwise mistreated, that is.”

“I’m fine,” he said, brushing off Dettlaff’s concern. “You haven’t been drinking from me,” he added in an attempt to change the subject. “How are you managing?”

“Fine. I’m attempting to kick the habit through use of animals,” said Dettlaff. His tone suggested it wasn’t going as well as he would have liked. “Now, please tell me why you’re being so quiet, witcher. I may be able to help.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Hesitantly, he continued, “Our generous host said some odd things a few days ago. Been thinking about them.”

“I take it they concern me?”

“Mhm.” Geralt rather wished he hadn’t brought it up. If he was mistaken, it would make their future dialogues awkward.

“I’m sure you’re aware of this, but your grunts don’t tell me a great deal,” said Dettlaff.

“Not even that I don’t want to talk about it?”

“Then why did you bring it up?”

“Hadn’t decided that when I mentioned it.”

Dettlaff leaned in, uncomfortably close, and there was nowhere for Geralt to go. “Tell me,” he said.

Geralt swallowed, licked his lips, and replied as monotonously as possible, “He suggested you were interested in me.”

Dettlaff blinked slowly. “I _am_ interested in you. You are an interesting person.”

“That’s not the way I meant.”

After a moment, realisation dawned on Dettlaff’s face. “Ah,” was all the comment he gave, his brow and mouth creasing. He didn’t look away from Geralt’s face, intense as always.

“Yeah.” Geralt tried to chuckle to ease Dettlaff’s agitation, but it was a sound that felt stilted and awkward in his mouth, and the fact he was chained to a chair made it even more so.

Dettlaff withdrew and stood ramrod straight. He stood there, staring, for several long awkward seconds, and it took every bit of self-control Geralt had not to look away. He then said, “He’s not wrong.”

Geralt’s eyebrows jumped up in shock. He’d been propositioned by men before; numerous times, in fact, but he never would have expected _Dettlaff_ to be among them, especially at this tenuous stage of their friendship. Even more unexpected, Geralt wanted to reciprocate.

“You haven’t protested,” said Dettlaff. “I expected you would, knowing what I do about you. Or are you just shocked?”

Geralt forced himself to speak. “Bit of both categories,” he admitted.

“So, you are not opposed?”

“I’m not.” He shifted in his chair, aiming to bridge the gap between them to demonstrate just how very _unopposed_ he was. Dettlaff held him still with a hand on his shoulder, lightly brushing the sharp edge of his collarbone with a thumb.

“I will have to disappoint you,” said Dettlaff, though the way his hand was twitching suggested he was exerting a great deal of self-control. “I cannot in good conscience do anything while you are a guest of my-“ He made a vague gesture to Anzelm, withdrawing from Geralt. “My friend.”

“Yeah, that’s… that makes sense…” Geralt couldn’t believe himself, but he was _disappointed_. He resumed slumping in his chair, bound hands hanging between his legs. The contact, brief though it had been, had been nice. He was starved for contact that wasn’t rough and demanding.

Dettlaff seemed to recognise this, as one of his hands rose to stroke Geralt’s jaw. Geralt involuntarily leaned into it.

“I apologise for leaving you here for so long,” said Dettlaff quietly. “I can see it is taking its toll on you. But everything will be alright soon, Geralt.”

The thumb on his jaw moved to his bottom lip. “Don’t be vague,” Geralt muttered, teeth grazing Dettlaff’s digit. “Tell me what you’re planning.”

“I fully intend to,” said Dettlaff. “You merely spoke before I could continue.”

That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. “Sorry,” he said, awkwardly. “Used to having information withheld from me.”

“That seems an impractical way to go about things.” Dettlaff surveyed their surroundings for eavesdroppers before he continued. Vampires had keen hearing, but so long as they were distracted with each other, he and Dettlaff weren't likely to be overheard. “I convinced Anzelm to extend Orianna an invitation, despite their… tremulous past. She has told Regis about your whereabouts already, no doubt, and Regis will arrive in a day or so.”

“You could have contacted him yourself,” pointed out Geralt.

“The only difference between me contacting Regis and Orianna doing it on my behalf is my level of comfort, which would be in dire straits had I contacted Regis myself. Besides which, I would have had to leave you on your own to do that, and with your condition so fire, that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.”

Geralt let it rest at that. He already knew from Dettlaff’s time as the ‘Beast of Beauclair’ that Dettlaff was a difficult man to coerce into a confrontation when he’d no desire for one.

“Regis will be here soon to retrieve you.” Dettlaf’s hand slid up to card through his hair, grasping it gently at the base of his neck. “I will intervene if necessary.”

“What’s the chances I’ll be let go quietly?”

“Regis is Anzelm’s elder. He should be able to bring Anzelm around to the idea, one way or another.”

“I’m expecting ‘another’.”

“I am uncertain of what may happen.” His palm grazed the nape of Geralt’s neck and Geralt shivered. “But don’t worry yourself: I don’t see Regis losing, even if it comes to that, and I will be here if things get out of hand.”

“He struggled with you,” murmured Geralt, clearly distracted. He hadn’t known having someone stroke the back of your neck could be so pleasant. Dettlaff’s hands weren’t calloused like his; they were smooth and soft and sent a pleasant tingling jittering down his spine.

“I try to be a humble man, Geralt, but I am not an easy opponent. You should know that.” The hand abruptly dropped away, much to Geralt’s disappointment. “But, as I said, I will intervene if need be. Two higher vampires should suffice in a pinch. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I’ll be more inclined to agree when the chains are gone,” groused Geralt.

“Very well, witcher. You have _some_ things to worry about, while the rest is being addressed. Better?”

“Better,” said Geralt.

“Try to keep out of trouble, in the meantime,” said Dettlaff, preparing to take his leave.

Geralt snorted. “Shouldn’t be too hard.” He gave his bindings a shake. “Not like I can go anywhere.”

“But your mouth certainly can,” said Dettlaff, just prior to him misting away. As morose as Dettlaff was, it appeared he had a sense of humour, and it aligned with Geralt’s own. Obviously not the primary thing Geralt looked for in a (fling? Partnership? Friendship with benefits?), but it was appreciated. A little humour was necessary in these circumstances.

Geralt sat back in his chair and waited.

* * *

As promised, Regis did eventually show up. Anzelm had barely a moment to accuse Regis of gate crashing – ‘there isn’t enough left of the Witcher to spare!’ – before Regis was at his front, removing his limbs from the anchors on the wall and floor. His expression was stormier and colder than Geralt had ever seen it, eyes so dark that one couldn’t distinguish the pupils. He worked fast and quiet, heaving Geralt up out of the chair by his underarms. Geralt’s knees buckled under his exhaustion.

“Regis,” Anzelm huffed. “What do you think you’re doing? I did not invite you, and that Witcher happens to be _my_ property.” He stormed across the glossy marble floor to where Regis was standing. Geralt was leaning on him, head bowed, panting from the slight exertion. His heart was going a mile a minute in an attempt to compensate for the loss of blood. “If you wanted a taste,” continued Anzelm. “You should have asked sooner.”

“That’s not why I’m here, Anzelm,” said Regis, his calm voice belied by his hostile demeanour. “Geralt was never yours to take.”

Anzelm sneered. It was an odd look on his pretty face. “Are you suggesting he belongs to you? He is not claimed.”

The arm around his waist squeezed him closer, ensuring he wouldn’t fall. “I find It hard to believe you haven’t heard of our companionship.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not, but that’s very curious.” Anzelm regarded Geralt’s slumped form with interest. “You invited a _Witcher_ into your pack?”

“They’re better suited than the average human, I’d say,” murmured one of Anzelm’s friends.

“And I would disagree, but yes. The Witcher is…” Regis hesitated. “With me.”

“Did _he_ accept?” asked Anzelm, clearly curious. “Or is that just wishful thinking? Because there was nothing on him to indicate he belonged to you.”

“He accepted,” croaked Geralt. He wanted this conversation to end already so he could lie down somewhere. He was trembling, his knees bent, his skin sweaty and pallid. If not for Regis, he would have collapsed.

“You’re part of his pack?” persisted Anzelm.

“He just told you as much,” said Regis, and started walking briskly toward the exit, dragging Geralt along with him. “Now, forgive me, but I need to take my leave. We can continue this conversation at a later date, if you insist upon it.”

“I insist upon it now!” snapped Anzelm. “I will not let you disrespect me in this manner!”

“Do not push, Anzelm,” said Regis, his voice level, but cold and dangerous. “I am in no mood to humour you, especially after you deliberately disobeyed our social conventions. It would be within my rights to teach you a lesson.”

Geralt glanced over his shoulder in time to see Anzelm swallow and withdraw, arms limp by his sides. His face was lined, expression livid, but he made no move to stop Regis’ departure. Dettlaff had been right: he had nothing to worry about. Regis had everything under control. It was nice to have one thing in his life not go completely awry.

Once outside, he saw that he had been kept in a lavish estate with sprawling, unkempt gardens and a marble fountain displaying what must have been the former owner of the house. It was currently non-functional. However, looking at the empty bottom reminded Geralt of his thirst. He hadn’t had anything to drink since early that morning, as Anzelm regularly forgot that he needed more than one cup of water a day in order to subsist.

“Got anything to drink?” he asked, head lulling to Regis’ shoulder. Regis carefully lowered Geralt to the rim of the fountain and handed him a waterskin. He managed to restrict himself to a couple of gulps instead of attempting to swallow the contents in one go. He’d gotten so used to the thirst that he hadn’t realised how dehydrated he was. That was the problem with being a Witcher: you were able to adjust to the worst of deprivation, but that prevented you from noticing how far developed an issue was.  

While he drank, Regis applied a cloth to the wound on his neck, staunching the blood flow. Much of it had turned tacky, sticking to his skin. He would need Regis to suture it. When it healed, it would inevitably leave a very ugly, prominent scar. That didn’t particularly bother Geralt, who had lost count of how many ugly, prominent scars he’d received over the years. Last someone had tried to count them, he’d had a little over forty.

Regis discarded the sullied cloths and withdrew a suturing kit from his supplies pouch. “We’ll have to do this now,” he mumbled, threading fine wire into a needle. “You’re in dire condition.”

“Got any potions on you?”

“That depends,” said Regis. “How many potions have you been given in the last few hours?”

“Two. Weak ones.” He shrugged. “Just meant to keep me sitting upright.”

“Two…” Regis hesitated, then removed a flask from his belt, popped the cork, and handed it to Geralt. “If you start to feel ill, stop immediately and we’ll try herbs instead.”

“Mhm.” Geralt took a tentative swallow of the concoction. When his stomach didn’t rebel, he took another, bigger swallow. The effect was almost instantaneous. His fatigue waned and his heartbeat slowed. The pain in his neck became more noticeable as a consequence, but that was a small price to pay for rejuvenation.

“I’m starting,” Regis warned him, then slid the needle smoothly into his flesh. The sting elicited a hiss. “My apologies,” murmured Regis. “I’ll try to make this quick.”

“It’s fine.” Geralt hunched over his knees, flask held to his lips. “I don’t recognise this place. Are we far from Corvo Bianco?”

“Not terribly so. About a day’s ride away,” said Regis. “I brought Roach. She’s waiting at the gate.”

Geralt swallowed the last of the potion and set the flask aside. “We’ll need to make a stop.”

“I have just the place in mind. Forgive me, but it is a little under two hours away.” Regis pulled the wire taut. “Do you think you can manage?”

“Yeah.” As long as it was Roach doing all the hard work, he ought to be fine. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d ridden on Roach in such a condition.

Regis finished up suturing his wound and dabbed away the remaining blood with the cloth. Once satisfied with his work, he helped Geralt to his feet, coiling an arm tight around his waist and pulling one of Geralt’s arms around his shoulders. Geralt teetered on his feet momentarily before falling into step with Regis.

Roach seemed happy to see him. As happy as a horse could appear, in any case. He stroked the tawny hair on her neck and mumbled a few soft, sentimental things that one would be hard pressed to get out of him otherwise, then let Regis help him into the saddle. He wobbled precariously.

“You got my things back,” observed Geralt as he peered into Roach’s saddle bags. He was relieved to see his swords, particularly Iris. He doubted Olgierd would have much liked him losing her.

“I didn’t, actually,” said Regis with a frown. He peered around, but their surroundings were vacant. “Did you manage to make a friend out of one of Anzelm’s companions?”

“Something like that,” said Geralt, deliberately vague. He grabbed the reins. “Lead the way, Regis.”

“I’ll do you one better,” said Regis, sliding his foot into a stirrup and hoisting himself up onto the saddle, slotting himself behind Geralt.

Geralt looked over his shoulder at Regis, eyebrow arched. “Really?”

“You’re in no position to argue.” Regis gently took the reins from his hands. “I worry you’ll fall if I surge ahead. Allow me this, Geralt.”

“Fine, if you insist.”

“I do.”

Regis sent Roach into a trot with a kick of his heels. Exhausted from the day’s events, Geralt bowed over Roach’s neck, closed his eyes, and tried to meditate. He didn’t complain when Regis wrapped a steadying arm around his chest. The presence of it was cool and reassuring and allowed him to drift further. After a while, Geralt felt nothing at all.

Geralt snapped out of his self-imposed stupor only when Regis squeezed his shoulder and spoke directly into his ear, murmuring something about a tavern and food. At the mention of food, he became aware of a gnawing hunger in his gut. He hadn’t eaten since that morning. Having not heard more than a few words of what Regis had said, Geralt shrugged, muttered, “Hope they have stew here”, and slid out of the saddle. Regis followed him down and set a hand on the small of his back to steady his steps.

The little village they had stopped at had a smattering of buildings and a long, winding road that broke into two a little ways past the perimeter of the village, one path leading to a mill, and the other disappearing over the slope of a hill. He didn’t recognise the place. It wasn’t somewhere he’d stopped in prior travels.

He seated himself in a quiet corner and let Regis take on the task of preparing food and lodgings for them. When he returned with a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread, Geralt tore the bread into pieces, dropped most of it into the bowl, and proceeded to drink the slurry of vegetables, bread, and gravy like a soup, scarcely pausing to chew. He paid little mind to the taste, which was a fortunate thing, as the stew wasn’t of the best quality and nor was it adequately heated. Regis handed him a mug of water once he had finished.

“No beer?” he asked, bringing the mug to his lips.

“I don’t think consuming alcohol would be wise at this period.”

Geralt disagreed, but he drank the water regardless. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“So,” he began, leaning back in his seat. “Am I officially part of your ‘pack’ now?”

“Oh.” Regis appeared startled by his choice of topic. “I quite forgot about that. I’m afraid I’m not one for packs, though I would not be opposed to having you as mine.” He cleared his throat. “Part of mine, that is.”

“Consider me part of it, then,” said Geralt, picking at the remainder of his bread.

“It’s… it’s not quite that simple, Geralt,” said Regis, looking exceedingly awkward. “Packs are unlike the traditional human family unit.”

Geralt waved a hand to encourage Regis to continue, though it was hardly necessary; when Regis wanted to explain something, he would do so with or without encouragement.

“To be in a pack is a great commitment,” Regis proceeded. “To some extent, you sacrifice autonomy by joining a pack; you must be willing to treat your packmates as an extension of yourself and extend your leader the respect he is due, much like a human would a commander. Much is shared. Time, food, companionship, and often, one’s bed, and there are certain duties expected of you. Ensuring the safety of other pack members, for example, or maintaining a steady supply of food. In some packs, failure of these tasks results in punishment or eviction, depending of the severity of ones failing. Very few vampires have left their pack voluntarily. It’s intended as a lifelong commitment.

“I expect, for the average human – Synanna demonstrated this quite well – that all of what I described is a frightening prospect, though I would not expect any of the above from you. Had I a pack, that is.”

“Five out of seven,” said Geralt.

Regis stared at him, uncomprehending. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m willing to do five of the seven things you mentioned.”

“And those would be?”

“Respect you, share my time, food, and companionship, and take certain duties upon myself.”

Regis audibly swallowed. “Which leaves… ah…” His gaze darted away.

“What?” Geralt popped a morsel of bread into his mouth. “You’re disappointed?” That wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting, nor hoping for. He’d thought Regis would be pleased.

“No, my friend, I appreciate the sentiment.” Regis smiled a very unconvincing smile. “Your absence gave me time to think on our relationship, and while I had experienced such thoughts in the past, and for some time after, when we were separated, they had not been as conclusive until recently, and I had hoped…”

“Regis.” He leaned across the table, sliding a hand onto Regis’ elbow. “You aren’t making a lot of sense.”

“I know.” He dropped a hand to Geralt’s, giving it a squeeze. “It’s not important. How are you feeling?”

“You’re changing the subject,” said Geralt. “Be forthright, Regis.”

Regis appeared to be gathering his courage, tightening his grip around Geralt’s hand and frowning down at the filthy surface of the table. Silence fell between them. It was a companionable rather than tense silence, as their lulls in activity often were, and Geralt made no attempt to spoil it by pressuring a faster answer. He waited patiently for Regis to proceed and finished off the last of his meal.

“Very well,” said Regis at last, drawing him out of his chair and through small crowds of indolent drinkers. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t for Regis to turn and press him into a wall the moment they were behind closed doors, bringing their mouths together. It was passionate, but chaste, and within seconds of initiating it Regis guiltily withdrew from Geralt’s personal space.

“Forgive me, that was perhaps too forward.”

Geralt, who had all the brain function of a nekker after such a startling development, managed to force out, “You too?”

Regis retreated a step. “Pardon?”

“Second time I’ve been propositioned recently.” Geralt pushed off the wall, heart hammering wildly, ridiculously in his chest. He would be able to get it under control, given a minute, but Regis would have heard its wild rhythm before then. “Starting to think witcher's are to vampires what sorceresses are to me,” he added, and he didn’t sound at all unhappy about it. Confused, but not unhappy.

Regis, on the other hand, was visibly perturbed. “Geralt, if you are putting me in the same category as Anzelm-“

“Not Anzelm,” he said. “Dettlaff.”

Regis looked on the verge of spluttering. “Dettlaff?”

“Yeah.” Geralt crossed the room to seat himself on the edge of the bed, elbows on his thighs. “Had all the time in the world in Anzelm’s care and talking to Dettlaff ended up being the highlight of it.”

Regis’ eyes tracked him across the room, watching him without blinking. “He propositioned you? While you were chained to a wall? That’s… well, rather forward, even for him.”

“Didn’t happen like that. I asked about it, he answered.” Geralt lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

“Wouldn’t that mean _you_ propositioned _him_ , Geralt?”

“I asked because Anzelm said he was interested. Wouldn’t have said anything otherwise.”

“Did you accept?”

 Geralt swept a hand up through his hair, sighing. “The yes was kind of implied. I didn’t say no.”

“And…” Regis licked his lips. “Me? Yes or no?”

“It’s yes, obviously.” He laid back in bed, forearms draped over his face. Triss and Yennefer 2.0 – just what he’d needed. At least in Dettlaff’s case, his interest was – or seemed – purely sexual. “There’s no contest if I’m to choose between you.” He peeked at Regis, who remained standing near the door. “Pardon the lack of enthusiasm. I’m very tired. But it is you I would stay with, Regis. Of course I would.”

Regis broke into a toothy smile. “That’s warming, Geralt, thank you, but I’m not insisting that you choose between us.”

“Meaning?”

“Through blood, though it is not commonly acknowledged by either of us, I am part of Dettlaff’s pack,” continued Regis. “And we, as I mentioned, _share_. Assuming you don’t object, of course.” He steepled his fingers. “Either way, this is as good a grounds as any to draw him out of hiding. I would like to hear his reasons for being in Anzelm’s company.”

Geralt’s body warmed at the prospect of being shared between Dettlaff and Regis. He swallowed and rolled onto his side to face the wall, wishing to hide how ridiculously arousing the idea was.

“Anzelm helped his recovery,” he said, toeing off his boots and pushing them over the end of the bed.  “Try not to be too upset with him. He got me out of there.” He held up a hand to forestall interruption. “But we’ll talk about it tomorrow. I could use some sleep.”

“Of course.” The floorboards creaked, announcing Regis’ approach. “May I join you?”

Geralt shuffled forward to make room for Regis. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” A slight weight settled behind him and long arms wrapped around his waist, a palm resting on his elbow. Regis nosed the back of his neck and he had to bite down on the inside of a cheek to silence a whine. Regis’ chest was cool and solid against his back. Yennefer had often held him in his sleep, in this very manner, but she was small, and slight enough that he’d worried about rolling onto her in his slumber; that wasn’t a concern he had to worry about with Regis.

It didn’t take him long to fall asleep, lulled into slumber by the steady rhythm of Regis’ breathing.  

Early the next morning, Regis arranged a hearty breakfast for Geralt and purchased a small satchel of fatback and nuts for the road. He gave Geralt a potion to drink before they left, which provided him with enough energy to mount Roach without assistance and set off without Regis acting as his crutch. The vampire surged ahead in the form of a thick fog, straying far enough from the track to ensure no one would see him. Granted, even if anyone did, it wasn’t likely he would be identified as a vampire. Few knew of the vampire’s ability to change into such a form.

He ate through most of the fatback and nuts on the journey, taking the occasional swig of water from Regis’ waterskin to wash it down. The sun bore down on his back and shoulders. He was still wearing the outfit Anzelm had put him in, and it wasn’t as thick as he would have liked, but nor was it uncomfortable enough for him to stop and change into his other clothes.

Sites he recognised started to show up as noon fell. They passed Hortense Vineyard, then Belgaard, stopped briefly at Beauclair for a drink and meal, and then continued on to Corvo Bianco. Geralt guided Roach into the stables and headed inside, Regis following at his heels.

“Sir!” Barnabas-Basil cried upon seeing him, before recovering his composure. “It is a relief to see you return, sir. I feared this property would need to change hands yet again, when it had become so comfortable and prosperous within yours.” He nodded to Regis. “A pleasure to see you too, of course, Master Regis.”

“Nice to see you too, Barnabas.” Geralt swiped an apple from the fruit display on the dining table. “Anything worth mentioning happen while I was gone?”

“Well, after your forth month of absence, we did get a visit from a ducal clerk, but nothing came of it.” Barnabas-Basil folded his hands behind his back. “I informed him that you had previously had a vagabond lifestyle and were having difficulty disengaging from it.”

“Thanks,” said Geralt. “Four months? How long was I gone, exactly?”

“A little over that,” answered Barnabas-Basil. “If I may ask, where is it you went? I had feared the worst.”

“Had a run in with some vampires,” he answered, dismissive. “Tell you all about it later. I need to change.” He finished his apple and selected a pear, chewing on it as he circled around to his bedroom door. He gestured for Regis to follow him in, who obliged and shut the door behind them.

Geralt sat on the end of his bed and removed his boots. He wanted to slip into something cool and loose and lie down for a few hours. “Give me about a week to recover,” he said. “Then we’ll do something about Dettlaff.”

“Take as long as you need,” said Regis, closing the space between them with quick strides. He helped Geralt divest his shirt and grazed his palms over Geralt’s sides, stopping at Geralt’s hips. He drew Geralt closer by the waistband of his trousers. “May I have a kiss before you retire, Geralt?”

“Go ahead.”

Regis leaned down. This kiss was not chaste, nor tentative. It was cool, passionate and demanding, and Geralt’s hands grappled blindly to find purchase on Regis, to draw him closer. His fingers eventually closed around his potions belt and Regis climbed up to straddle his thighs, his nails biting into the indents of Geralt’s navel.

“You’re lovely,” Regis murmured into his mouth. “So lovely, Geralt. You’re making this very hard for me.”

“Hard, how?” asked Geralt wryly, gliding his lips away from Regis’ mouth to trail kisses down his jaw.

“Puerile as you’re being, in exactly in the way you’re thinking.” Regis ran his palms up Geralt’s heaving chest, over his pearling nipples and to his neck. “You couldn’t conceive of the ways I could make you sore, Geralt. Pleasantly so, mind you, and I’m sure we would also discover just how vocal you can be made to be.” The way he spoke was _obscene_. It sent heat pooling straight down to Geralt’s cock.

He broke their passionate little exchange to look up at Regis, whose dark eyes were half-lidded and sclera breeched with tendrils of vibrant red. Gently, he parted their bodies, taking the opportunity to run his hands down Regis’ chest and over his thighs. The man inhaled sharply.

“I’m going to bed, Regis,” he said, faintly teasing. “Do you wish to join me again?”

“Naturally.”

* * *

Toussaint was an ideal place for recuperation with its warm climate, wealthy natives, and high quality of food and water. With the help of witcher potions, regular meals, and unhindered access to water, Geralt had soon recovered his strength, and immediately started planning to find Dettlaff upon having enough energy to do so.

None of his plans came to fruition. Not because they were bad plans, but because Dettlaff took the initiative, catching him on a stroll through his herb garden. He didn’t announce himself in the traditional manner, sliding a hand up Geralt’s back while he was picking winter cherries for armour dye. Startled as he was, Geralt nearly elbowed him in the throat.

“You appear to be recovering well,” said Dettlaff, which prompted Geralt to lower his arm. He turned and set his shoulders against a stone column.

“I’ve recovered from worse states,” he said, raising a hand to the wound on his neck. The stitches had been removed yesterday, leaving behind pink, puckered flesh. “I gather you were the one who recovered my belongings?”

“I’m sure you’re just as talented without your swords as you are without them,” murmured Dettlaff. “But I felt recovering them was the least I could have done. I should not have let you remain in Anzelm’s custody as long as I did.”

Geralt made a dismissive gesture. He wasn’t about to make excuses for Dettlaff, but nor would he pursue the topic. It wouldn’t make any difference to talk about it. Just drudge up unpleasant sentiments.

“I appreciate the effort. One of the swords was a gift.”

“And the armour?”

“Cost me a hefty amount to be made.” Geralt had needed have each piece made separately over the course of a year just to be able afford it. It would have been a grievous loss.

“Impressive as it is, I do hope its use will be limited.” Dettlaff moved closer, boxing him in against the pillar. “I can’t think of anyone more deserving of a rest, witcher.”

“You’re starting to make me think you’re _fond_ of me.”

“Perhaps I am.” Dettlaff ran a thumb over the nose of his medallion. “You displayed admirable qualities when first we met and continued with that display during our following conversation, though I had done little to deserve your understanding.”

“I never got the impression you liked me.”

“You didn’t exactly catch me at a good period of my life.” Dettlaff drew the medallion to his lips, speaking against the shivering metal. “I have decided to remain away from man, with one exception.”

Geralt folded his arms, watching Dettlaff with interest as he stroked the metal of his medallion, rather like one would stroke a cross. There was something covetous and reverent about the action.

“Have you thought about my proposal?” he asked.

“Don’t recall you proposing anything,” said Geralt. “Made some vague allusions to wanting to bed me. That was about it.”

Dettlaff made a low, rumbling sound. “I confess, I am not yet sure what I want from you. Bedding you, however – that seems a good starting point.”

“Well, you don’t dawdle, do you.”

“I’ve been alive for far too long to have patience for dawdling.” Dettlaff slid his hand up, beneath the chain of Geralt’s medallion, and drew him closer. “Will you allow me the pleasure?”

Geralt eased him back with a hand on his sternum. “Small problem.”

Dettlaff extracted himself, frowning. “Yes?”

“Regis expressed similar interest.”

Dettlaff paused. “I fail to see why that is a problem,” he said, twisting Geralt’s chain between his nimble fingers. “Unless you favour monogamy. I will respectfully take my leave, if that is the case.”

“You’re fine with…” He unnecessarily cleared his throat. “ _Sharing_?”

“With anyone else, no, I would not be, but Regis is my blood brother, and we have shared things far more intimate than a lover.”

“Intimate? Don’t remember him mentioning anything like that.”

Dettlaff flared his nostrils, unamused. “Not at all what I meant. Now, shall we continue?”

“Think you ought to talk to Regis first.” Geralt folded his arms, effectively cutting off access. Dettlaff did not look at all pleased. “I imagine you still need help with your addiction, and you owe him an apology.”

“I owe him _distance_.”

“That’s what you want, not him.” Removing himself from Dettlaff’s personal space, Geralt motioned for Dettlaff to follow him into the front yard. Reluctantly, shoulders hunched and hands fisted at his sides, Dettlaff obeyed. Dettlaff drew curious glances from Geralt’s staff on their way through the vineyard. With his dark attire, pale skin, and startling blue eyes, he was quite a sight to behold. He didn’t fit in with the usual rabble of Toussaint. Nowhere near brightly coloured enough.

If he didn’t know better, he could have sworn Dettlaff was dragging his heels.

“Are you sure this is wise?” asked Dettlaff, mere feet away from Geralt’s homestead. “He may have vocalised a wish to see me, but upon having that request fulfilled-“

“He’ll be relieved,” Geralt interrupted.

“If… if you are certain…”

Regis wasn’t in the dining room, nor the bedroom. When he asked Barnabas-Basil after Regis’ whereabouts, Barnabas-Basil directed him to the cellar. Specifically, the laboratory Geralt had discovered there. Regis had mentioned wanting to improve his mutagenerator, make it more refined. He wanted Geralt to be able to create specific mutagens rather than rely on chance, though Geralt fully intended to have little use for the device in the coming years. He wanted to settle down, hang up his swords. He was far beyond retirement age.

They found Regis hunched over the disassembled parts of the mutagenerator. Upon seeing Dettlaff, he abandoned them without a second thought.

“Dettlaff, my friend!”

“Regis.”

Gingerly, Regis set his hands on Dettlaff’s broad shoulders. “Geralt told me you didn’t wish to see me. I’m relieved you decided otherwise.”

“I had thought _you_ would not wish to see _me_ ,” said Dettlaff. The tense line of his shoulders started to descend.

“There are few circumstances under which I would not want to see you.” Regis drew him closer, giving him a brief, warm squeeze. “I thank you for assisting with Geralt’s escape; Geralt mentioned that you had a hand in getting me there.”

“There is no need for thanks,” said Dettlaff. “I did what had to be done, and should have been done much sooner.”

“You did more than most of our kind would have,” said Regis warmly. He released Dettlaff at last, guiding him toward the exit, and reaching to do the same to Geralt. “Come, let us sit somewhere more scenic and with clean air. The smell of chemicals lingers on the stone. Dreadfully distracting.”

They made themselves comfortable on a shaded patio Geralt had asked Barnabas-Basil to arrange during Ciri’s and Dandelion’s vests. Shortly after making themselves comfortable, Barnabas-Basil brought out a jug of raspberry juice, three glasses, and a platter of chicken sandwiches. “Courtesy of Marlene,” he said before leaving.  Geralt immediately began eating. After being consistently hungry for so long, it would be some weeks before his instinctual drive to eat as much as possible settled.

“Do you intend to stay long?” asked Regis while Geralt was gulping down raspberry juice.

“That depends entirely on how this encounter pans out,” replied Dettlaff.

“How do you want it to end?”

Dettlaff eyed Geralt. “My repertoire of ideas is limited by what you want of me, Regis. I’ve no intention of overstepping my boundaries in regards to the witcher.”

Geralt didn’t look up from his drink. He was feeling a little awkward, to say the least.

“That’s not at all what I asked, Dettlaff,” said Regis, but not unkindly. “I only wish you to be happy and fulfilled, so please, a clear answer.”

“Very well.” Dettlaff folded his hands over his lap. “I’d like us to find out if the bed is big enough for three,” said Dettlaff quite casually. Geralt had to force himself to swallow instead of choking on the contents of his glass.

“I believe it is,” answered Regis, equally as casual. “What do you think, Geralt?”

“Plenty big,” he managed, and tried not to wince at how such a comment sounded in the context of their conversation.

“Well then,” said Dettlaff. “I expect I will be staying long after all.”

With that settled, they proceeded into conversation about history, friends, and any good books they had read recently. All the while, Geralt rubbed his ears to make sure they weren’t betraying any embarrassment. His witcher mutations could only obstruct so many blood vessels.

Their conversation continued well into the evening. Once the sun descended low enough, Barnabas-Basil felt it prudent to bring out a bottle of White Wolf, the wine Geralt had recently had the pleasure of naming. It prompted Dettlaff to ask after the story, which he was more than happy to regale them with. Dettlaff smiled at his dry account of Liam and Matilda’s spat, and it was a nice, easy smile, quite unlike the sharp or wry ones Geralt had seen in the past.

With the generous application of wine, Geralt soon forgot his earlier embarrassment. He became a little rambunctious and started to slur, and that was when Regis gently removed the wine bottle from his hand and informed him that it was time to go to bed. Due to aforementioned drinking, he was rather surprised when he stepped into his bedroom, pulled his shirt over his head, and belatedly noticed Regis and Dettlaff ambling in after him.

 _Oh, right_ , he thought stupidly.

He paused, shirt wrapped around his forearms, and peered past them to make sure Barnabas-Basil wasn’t waiting in the dining room. He didn’t pay him nearly enough to subject him to the sound of three men sharing a bed.

Regis shut the door. “After you, Dettlaff.”

Within the blink of an eye, Dettlaff had dissolved into smoke, too fast for Geralt to track. He reappeared behind Geralt and gently extracted the shirt from his forearms, throwing it aside and sliding an arm across his clavicle. Regis joined them in a sweep of motion, catching Geralt by the hips and pressing a hungry kiss to his jaw. He felt Dettlaff’s free hand on the small of his back, gliding down over scar tissue to descend beyond his waistband, touching in a meandering way that only served to tease. Any inebriation Geralt had been experiencing was swept away by arousal.

Regis was the one to remove his trousers and underwear for him, pulling them deftly down his legs and exploring the warm insides of his thighs with strokes and caresses. That was all they did, for a while. They touched, slivering into private crevices on Geralt’s body, tickling over scar tissue, occasionally applying their mouths to his neck and lips and back and drawing forth sounds Geralt hadn’t even known he could make. His cock ached under their ministrations, painfully hard, jutting between his belly and the coarse fabric of Regis’ vest, who had pushed himself between Geralt’s legs.

He almost turned boneless when Regis, at long last, removed a glove and grasped his cock. A breath went barrelling out of his lungs, pressed past clenched teeth. Dettlaff laved the flat of his tongue over the nape of his neck and Regis stroked at the base of his cock and it was everything Geralt could do not to come right there and then. He didn’t want this to end prematurely. They had all night.

Fortunately, Regis and Dettlaff seemed to be in agreement on this matter, as they guided him to the bed and murmured sweetly in his ear about all the things they wished to do to him. Geralt liked to think himself learned in the area of intimacy; he’d lost count of how many partners he’d had over the years, but they were suggesting things he’d never even conceived of.

Dettlaff steered him to sit over Regis’ thighs and claimed Geralt’s back for himself, torso flat against his spine. Regis was still stroking him, using his precum as lubrication and grinding his thumb against a particularly sensitive vein. Geralt’s thighs clenched and trembled. He grappled at the bed sheets, trying for some self-control.

“Do you have any oil?” asked Dettlaff against the shell of his ear. His broad palms had dropped to Geralt’s ass, squeezing at the ample flesh there. Much of Dettlaff was cold, except the hardness that pressed insistent between his cheeks.

“In the nightstand,” he muttered, voice faint.

Dettlaff retrieved a half-empty flask of oil from the nightstand drawer. Typically reserved for private evenings, so Geralt knew it would do their bodies no harm. He heard the cork pop, heard Dettlaff bite off two nails, and then felt the warm slick of the oil between his legs. The introduction of two fingers wasn’t entirely pleasant. Certainly one of the oddest things Geralt had felt. Not that he hadn’t ever been with a man; he’d had a particularly interesting night with a golden dragon as a younger man, but that had involved sliding their cocks together, kissing, groping. Not this.

Regis reached up with his free hand and tangled it in his hair, stroking his scalp. “Relax,” he instructed him, soft but firm. He tightened his grip on Geralt’s cock, giving it a good, hard stroke that had him shuddering.

“Feels strange,” mumbled Geralt, thoughtlessly. “People like this?”

Dettlaff pressed deeper, prompting him to curl his toes and fingers, and Regis squeezed the base of his cock in a delicious contrast of sensations. Though it still wasn’t anything spectacular, he supposed that answered his question.

“Patience, Witcher,” Dettlaff rumbled. He licked a stripe up Geralt’s back, pointed teeth grazing the pale slope of his shoulder. “You’ll be screaming shortly.”

“Hope it’s from pleasure, if that’s the case,” said Geralt wryly.

Dettlaff responded by pressing deeper still, and it turned out he did, in fact, know what he was doing, as Geralt involuntarily groaned in response, obscenely loud. Whatever Dettlaff was doing now, he’d never felt anything quite like it, and that was far from a bad thing. After a few minutes of stimulation, he started to shake – he didn’t even shake this badly when he overexerted himself on a case. His head turned dizzy with warmth and he dropped it to Regis’ shoulder, breathing shallowly. There was more red on his skin than there had ever been in previous sexual escapades. He was practically writhing, and all Dettlaff was doing was fucking him with his fingers.  

He wasn’t groaning anymore, but he was making other sounds, soft and wanton. Half-bitten whimpers, breathy sighs, near-unintelligible encouragement. His cock was leaking into Regis’ hand. All the self-control in the world wouldn’t have been able to prevent his climax. He came shuddering against Regis’ belly, his teeth clamped over Regis’ shoulder to muffle the bellow that tore from his lungs.

Dettlaff let out a huff of laughter and withdrew his fingers. “Was that a sufficient answer, witcher?”

“Dettlaff, really,” said Regis, still stroking Geralt’s hair, cradling him as he recovered from his explosive orgasm. “We’d barely even started.”

“With that witcher stamina of his, I’m sure he’ll manage to last the rest of the night.” He heard, and felt Dettlaff shifting behind him, felt the head of a cock warm against the inside of his thigh. “Ready for another round?”

He took a moment to catch his breath before he replied. “If it was anything like the last one, definitely.”

“Are you sure?” asked Regis. “You’re still recovering, after all.”

“I’ve had sex in far worse states,” said Geralt, and Regis frowned at him. He quickly added, “I’m _fine_ , Regis. Well rested.”

“Let us continue, then,” said Dettlaff. “I believe Regis could use your attentions before myself.” Dettlaff’s hand replaced Regis’ in his hair, guiding him back and off of Regis’ thighs. The slight, insistent pull at his hair sent his cock twitching, and his skin was throbbing with renewed arousal when Dettlaff pressed him to the tent in Regis’ trousers. The barrier was hastily removed by surprisingly steady fingers and Regis’ heavy cock jutted against Geralt’s cheek and jaw, bumping on his lips. Geralt coiled his fingertips around the base and Regis made a lovely, breathy little sound. It was warm and heavy in his grip and he thought, dizzily, that he could get used to this.

Regis cupped his face, lowering him onto his cock, the underside of it hot and musty and gliding along his tongue. Through lidded eyes, he saw Regis’ head drop back and his lips part, unveiling the points of his fangs. His eyes were dark, wild with lust, and his chest heaved when Geralt hollowed his cheeks.

Dettlaff’s hand came to rest between his shoulder blades, effectively pinning him in position. His other grasped at a hip, holding Geralt still as he positioned himself, the slick head of his cock pressed to Geralt’s entrance. He’d applied additional oil. By the girth of him, Geralt felt he was going to savour that extra lubrication.

He groaned around Regis’ cock when Dettlaff breached him. The stretch was hot and painful, much like the initial stretch of the fingers, but the orgasm had loosened him. He accepted Dettlaff readily, even bore down on him when that early pleasure returned in a heavy, oppressive wave. It took some time for the pain to recede, but when it did, there was only a staggering pleasure that had sweat beading on his skin and heat surging through his gut. He could have screamed. Would have screamed, had Regis’ cock not been jerking against the soft back of his throat. Another thing the mutations deprived him of, apparently: his gag reflex.

Every thrust of Dettlaff’s was punctuated with a throaty growl. He curled his body over Geralt’s, broad chest to his shoulder blades. His nails bit into the skin of Geralt’s hip and his teeth grazed the scar on his neck, threatening a bite, perhaps to cover it with a fresh scar of his own. A mark to display that Geralt was taken. He leaned back to provoke a bite, but Dettlaff merely licked and grazed, careful not to inflict lasting damage.  

“You’re doing well,” Regis murmured, voice soft and breathy, catching in his throat. He stroked Geralt’s hair away from his sweaty forehead, loving and attentive. Geralt responded by sucking him further into his throat, cheek to Regis’ pelvis, eager to please, and Regis gave a full body twitch and groaned in response, spilling into his throat.

Behind him, Dettlaff’s rhythm started to lose coordination. He panting against Geralt’s shoulder turned low and bestial. His grip tightened, dragging pink lines into Geralt’s skin. He struck that lovely place inside of him and Geralt saw white. He moved all four of his limbs, his toes curling, fingers grasping at Regis for leverage, trying to find ground while the room disappeared in a pleasant haze. He lifted his hips unconsciously, ejaculation covering his stomach and the bed sheets, and he tightened around Dettlaff enough that Dettlaff came shortly after.

Dettlaff licked one final stripe over Geralt’s sweaty back before guiding him into lying down, arms wound around his waist. Regis positioned himself at Geralt’s front and pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead, smiling warmly.

“Are you alright, Geralt?” asked Regis.

He swallowed. “Just need to catch my breath.” Both Dettlaff and Regis were still clothed, for the most part. Geralt didn’t mind, though he tugged at the seams of Regis’ vest.

Chuckling, Regis removed it and started to toe off his boots, and then shrugged off his shirt. Dettlaff followed suit, removing his coat with surprising ease. He left the rest of his outfit untouched.

“The night is still young,” murmured Dettlaff, reaching between Geralt’s legs. “Think you could go for a little longer?”

Geralt answered by rolling over to kiss him.

* * *

Dandelion referred to them as ‘odd bedfellows’. Geralt had to agree. He’d certainly never imagined he would one day be in a relationship with two vampires. One, perhaps, but _two_? He still woke up some mornings, slotted neatly between them, and wondered how the hell he’d managed it. Not that he was complaining. Far from it, in fact; he couldn’t have been happier with the state of his romantic life.

Living in a vineyard ensured their day to day life was relatively quiet. This was ideal for Dettlaff, who restricted his social activity to Regis, Dandelion (who he’d hit it off with, much to everyone’s surprise), and very occasionally Zoltan and Ciri, who managed to tear themselves away from their obligations to visit every couple of weeks. With Regis’ help, he was steadily overcoming his addiction to blood, but he didn’t trust himself to be around humans for the most part. It would probably be some years before he was comfortable enough to involve himself in human society again.

Regis enjoyed the quiet as well, spending much of his time reading, renovating the mutagenerator, and interacting with Geralt’s staff. They came to regard him with high esteem and would go to him when injured. Unlike Dettlaff, Regis ventured out of the vineyard to visit Beauclair every so often, usually with Geralt at his side. Most things they needed could have been delivered, but both of them enjoyed their little outings too much to give them up.

Geralt had sought this unremarkable, quiet life for so very long. It wasn’t exactly as he had imagined, mind you; there was no Yennefer, and he had not built this house with his own hands, and nor was he raising horses and sheep. But that didn’t matter, because he couldn’t imagine being more content than he was now.


End file.
